


Join Overwatch

by Ashapon



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Reaper76 - Freeform, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 19:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10520586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashapon/pseuds/Ashapon
Summary: Reyes can’t be an adult about how he feels, Morrison just wants the fighting to stop.





	

Reyes knew better than to test the waters; for all the golden boy do-gooder charm and charisma that Morrison seemed to have in spades, it was clear that Overwatch’s Strike-Commander was on his last leg of patience though the day had barely started.

Oh, there was no doubt it was his fault in some fashion. Just the night previous, Morrison had gotten an earful from the higher-ups about the disrespectful conduct of some individuals under his command. That part was definitely his fault, but he was sick of not calling out assholes when he saw them.

It was unfortunate that one of the men almost solely responsible for gauging Overwatch’s capabilities and subsequently providing them with what he deemed appropriate funding was in fact a giant tool. Reyes didn’t like beating around the bush when it came to guys like that, didn’t believe that organizations like Overwatch should be so caught up in the politics and the bureaucracy of it all.

So he’d told him off, big fucking deal. He was just being honest.

Fortunately, Morrison was there in an instant to, as he put it, ‘salvage the situation’. Smooth things over with twenty straight minutes of ass-kissing. Or that’s what Reyes assumed had happened after he was ordered to leave the briefing room and stand in the hallway like a child in timeout.

Maybe not twenty straight minutes of ass-kissing. Five, tops. The rest was devoted to a furious tirade about Overwatch’s lack of professionalism and how they’d ought to keep “those filthy Blackwatch mutts on their leashes”.

Reyes really wished he’d landed a hit on the guy.

Morrison had left the briefing room looking the better part of completely exhausted, had rounded on Reyes and demanded an explanation.

In retrospect, an impish grin and the words “he started it” did nothing to help the situation.

He hadn’t spoken much to Morrison since then, not even on the journey to the photography studio in downtown Zurich. Overwatch officials wanted some of its members in on a promotional photo-op for recruitment posters, news stories, whatever the hell else. Reyes had no intention of getting his picture taken, but he knew Jack was going and he wasn’t about to pass up on the opportunity to see something fucking hilarious.

Overwatch’s best and brightest dolled up and posed mindlessly before a fluorescent green screen, trying not to blink against the blinding flashes of the camera. He promised he’d send Jesse pictures, too.

As it so happens, the studio was also providing refreshments. Reyes helped himself to a cup of fresh coffee and a cinnamon-coated doughnut while the head photographer gathered the other assembled members and explained how they would proceed.

Besides himself and Morrison, Ana Amari, Reinhardt Wilhelm, Angela Ziegler, and Lena Oxton were also present. Some more excited than others about the opportunity, bounding to their chairs and awaiting hair and make-up.

“You as well,” the head photographer squinted at him, disbelieving blue eyes and brown hair packed in a neat bun. “You are not actually here for the photo shoot, are you?”

Reyes tried not to be affronted by his skepticism; he was, after all, looking as though he’d only just rolled out of bed in a dark hoodie, jeans, his beanie. His hair had been a mess this morning, as it often was since he’d allowed it to grow a bit, but even if it hadn’t been, the hat was his go to.

He swallowed what remained of his first pastry, downed a fourth of his coffee, and shook his head.

“Nah,” he fished for a second doughnut, one with sprinkles. “Moral support, you know. Mind it I sit here?”

He didn’t really provide Reyes with an answer, instead opting to turn to his team and give some orders before summoning the first victim.

Reyes shrugged and plopped down in a seat not unlike a director’s chair, allowing glee to pull his lips into a small smile. He relished in feeling - for the moment - like an actor, because the embarrassing dream had once been there, a very potent part of his childhood.

And then, months later, he’d wanted to sing. That lasted weeks and then he’d taken up sewing.

How his mother survived his fleeting interests was beyond him, but she’d always been supportive. God, he needed to give her a call one of these days.

“You look rather pleased,” it was Ana who shook him from his reverie, a disapproving arch to her brow. “Please tell me you’re not here to put Jack in an even worse mood.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he hummed into his coffee. “Tell me he’s up first.”

Reyes cackled at the sight of Morrison conversing with the photographer.

“Hell yeah,” he leaned back in his seat, grinning. “It’s fuckin’ Christmas.”

“You are ridiculous,” it was no shock that Ana was rolling her eyes beside him. “What has gotten into you these past few days?”

His grin faded and he thumbed at his Styrofoam coffee cup.

Right, nothing got past Ana and it was likely that Jack confided in her his frustration with Gabriel’s unbearable behavior.

If Reyes was going to be honest with himself, he would say he knew one hundred percent what the hell was going on, why he was doing this. He knew and he was fucking terrified of what it meant, which was why immaturity, frustration, jealousy had all won out and taken the fucked up form of passive-aggressive deeds like, say, telling off a potential Overwatch donor just to get Morrison yelled at and pissed off and…

It was easier when Morrison was pissed off, anyway.

“Gabriel,” Ana’s hand touched his shoulder and the weight of it forced him to look over. “What is this about? Are you really mad at Jack?”

Reyes regarded her, silent, teeth toying with the delicate flesh on the inside of his cheek. He bit down, hard, and drew blood.

He was saved from confronting that particular bit of reality when Morrison and the photography team took their positions. No, he could return back to what he knew best.

Sitting up in his seat, Reyes leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees and let out a laugh just loud enough to cause Morrison to glance his way.

“Make sure you get his good side,” he joked, winking. “Knock ‘em dead, Jackie.”

He watched the way Morrison’s expression tightened, the hope of some playful conversation fading from his eyes, replaced by resolve. The photo-op was one more thing to do on the list of many.

Reyes’ overall satisfaction was squandered by the growing mass of guilt clenching in his chest.

“Let’s do one with a three-quarter view,” the photographer instructed, waving his hand. “From the right, please.”

The entirety of Morrison’s photo shoot followed a similar pattern; Reyes made various attempts at embarrassing his friend while all the attention was on him, knowing that somewhere there was a crack in that collected and oh-so-polished facade of his. The crack had been there for days, splintering, growing deeper and deeper.

When Morrison was about done with his photos - and Ana had hissed for Reyes to keep quiet and nudged his shoulder enough times he probably had a bruise - he had stopped to talk with a few members of the crew. A small crowd had formed around him, but he was smiling, polite, charming. Always so endearing, so likeable.

Reyes had to hand it to him, it was difficult to spot the weariness in his expression, the irritation. They’d known each other for so long, he knew not to take Jack at face value.

Jack knew the same of him.

Whatever Morrison said had the group around him laughing and a particularly brave, or overly friendly, crew member placing her hand against his arm, smiling. That casual ‘oh, you’ gesture that had Gabriel frowning and tapping an impatient finger on the edge of his empty coffee cup.

Every single goddamn time.

He bit his lip, glancing away from the scene, huffing under his breath, forgetting that Ana was directly beside him. That she’d been watching him like a hawk since they’d arrived.

“Oh, no,” Ana started, her tone a mix of incredulity and something overwhelmingly sweet, something like fondness. “Gabriel, you cannot be serious.”

“I try not to be,” Reyes retorted, a weak attempt at diverting what was coming with sarcasm. “Don’t you have to get your picture taken or whatever?”

Ana went silent, but he could feel the warmth of her gaze heavy on his temple. She didn’t say anything and he wondered if it would have been easier if she had.

His agitation won out.

“For the love of…” he lowered his voice, narrowing his eyes up at her. “What? What is it?”

She hummed.

“This is about the the interview, isn’t it? The one from Zurich News?”

Reyes clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. For an instant, images played against the black of his eyelids like a film reel.

Morrison, impeccably dressed, perched with an awkward smile on the edge of his seat. One of the Zurich News’ hosts sitting beside him. Close, way too fucking close. Touching his thigh with her hand and laughing when Morrison seemed flustered. 

_“You have to know,” she said. “Come on, now.”_

_“I didn’t,” he insisted, chuckling. “I never imagined… it’s very flattering, though. Thank you.”_

Reyes stood from his seat, shaking his head and making his way over to where the refreshments sat.

_“You hear that, ladies?” The host winked at the camera. “Handsome and modest. Must be why they keep you around.”_

_“Must be,” another laugh._

He refilled his coffee, grimacing.

_“With a face like this at the head of their organization,” the host playfully tapped Morrison’s cheek with a manicured nail. “Overwatch has my support.”_

“Fuck,” Reyes cursed, hot coffee scalding his palm and spilling onto the table. “God fucking…”

Ana was right behind him and he hoped desperately that he was radiating the appropriate ‘I really don’t want to talk about this’ mood. She sighed.

The spilled coffee stained the front of his hoodie, soaking through the bottom hem, down his sleeves. He swore under his breath, shutting the machine off and staring down at the java puddle.

“You should talk with him,” Ana said at once, her voice soft. “Don’t make me do it. This can’t keep going on.”

Reyes remained silent, pacing from the room without another word.

The room he ducked into was at the far end of the studio, housed two long tables, some mismatched chairs, a few appliances, and a sink. It might have been where the crew members ate their lunches or held in-house conferences.

He closed the door behind him and tore off his coffee-soaked sweatshirt. His beanie fell to the floor in the brief struggle but Gabriel ignored it and moved over to the sink.

There was a towel folded into a neat square, which he used to scrub vigorously at the stains. Water splashed onto the red tank he wore underneath.

What the fuck was wrong with him? What else could happen at the end of this scenario but Jack hating his goddamn guts? Was that what he wanted?

Reyes stopped scrubbing, a sigh slipping from his lips.

What he wanted, if he actually gave it any thought, wasn’t going to fucking happen. Period.

Reyes jumped when the door to the room flew open and Morrison stood at the entrance, eyebrows furrowed in concern. He let the door shut behind him, taking swift steps over to the Blackwatch Commander.

Before either of them could speak, Jack pulled Gabriel’s hand into his own, turning it over to examine the inflamed skin of his palm.

“Can I help you?”

Jack’s thumb smoothed over the skin before he guided it over to the sink, adjusting the steady flow of water to something cooler.

“I thought we should talk,” he replied after a long moment. “Can we?”

“Are we going to talk about how unnecessary this is?” Gabriel waved his free hand. “This whole ‘tending to my wounds’ bullshit?”

Jack shook his head, an eyebrow arched. Silence, apart from the running water, filled the space between them. When Jack seemed satisfied, he shut the sink off, dried off Gabriel’s hand, and inspected the wound.

His thumb glided across the tender pink skin once more. He didn’t let go, even as he spoke.

“I want to know what I did to upset you.”

Gabriel scoffed and simultaneously struggled to quell his rapid pulse.

“Not everything’s about you,” he snatched his hand free, frowning. “Hate to bear the bad news.”

“So you’re not pissed?” Jack crossed his arms. “And I must be imagining the fact that you haven’t looked me in the eye for over a week.”

Gabriel shrugged, reaching for his half-soaked sweatshirt draped on the counter.

“You must be imagining things, Strike-Commander,” he replied. “Maybe it’s all this work. You ought to get some rest.”

From the shift in Jack’s position, the nonchalance was not well-received.

Gabriel almost jumped when Jack closed the distance between them, hands braced on the counter top, caging him in.

“Excuse the fuck outta me,” Gabriel growled and this time his eyes darted up to meet his friend’s. “But I’d like to go back and have another fucking doughnut, thanks.”

He was surprised to find not anger, but something imploring in Jack’s furrowed brow, something exhausted, but still hopeful. He looked away.

“Gabe,” Jack sighed, so close that Gabe could feel the rise and fall of his chest. “Ana told me to ask you about the interview I did with Zurich News.”

Gabriel ran a hand across his face, flustered and gripping the edge of the counter.

“Why the hell would you even ask?” He bristled, mumbling. “Goddammit, Ana.”

“It was the interview.”

 _He fucking knows_ , a darker part of his mind whispered, sending his body, his muscles into a panic. When he pushed away from Jack’s hold, the man let him go.

Gabriel could feel Jack’s eyes on him as he paced, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

What could he say? What could he say? What would make sense? Pissing Jack off had done nothing, really, and it was tiring the both of them. He didn’t have the energy - emotional, mental - to keep up this bullshit anymore.

Gabriel took a deep breath and forced himself to think carefully. It was there in his mind, one of the most basic concepts tucked alongside his fight-or-flight instincts.

The best lies are based on truth.

More bullshit, it was. For both their sakes.

“I’m sick of it,” he blurted finally, standing still. “You’re more than just a goddamn figurehead for the higher-ups to show off. It isn’t like you went through hell in the S.E.P. just so you could be paraded around as the ‘face of Overwatch’.”

Gabriel made a grand gesture with his hands at the last bit, his tone laced with sarcasm.

“How can you deal with that shit?” He went on, scowling, spinning to face Jack. “People don’t even look at you like you’re human. I fucking know better, you’re more than just your stupid subjectively handsome face; you’re tough, you’re smart as shit, and you deserve to be more than just a symbol people can throw their shitty feelings at.”

Huffing out irritated breaths, Gabriel ignored the thought that he himself wasn’t any better than those people with their shitty feelings. His chest rose with another deep breath and he was about to fill the ensuing silence when it was interrupted by Jack.

Laughing.

Gabriel couldn’t stop himself from regarding his friend with a look akin to betrayal, his cheeks flushing in the face of what seemed like a complete dismissal of his inner dilemma. He waited - a shocking display of patience - until the laughter cleared and Jack was glancing over at him with affection.

He cleared his throat.

Jack spoke first, “You think I’m handsome?”

Gabriel’s hands flew up in an elaborate demonstration of his displeasure.

“Wow, fuck you,” he replied, his face growing warmer. “Fuck you very much. Okay, I’m going now.”

“Gabe,” Jack chuckled, reaching out as he turned away. “Hang on a sec, c’mere.”

Gabriel, who had no intention of continuing this humiliating conversation, found himself being blinded by what he eventually realized was his beanie. He struggled to pull the lip of his hat up over his eyes and was instead guided into an embrace by the hand that snagged his elbow. His shoulders, his body, his entire being relaxed into hold before he could stop it. His hands remained suspended at Jack’s side, pathetically indecisive.

“Right,” Gabriel managed, the acerbic edge of his usual sarcasm muffled by Jack’s shoulder. “You’re a hug person.”

God, it felt so good, though. He closed his eyes for just a moment, savored the scent of Jack’s stupid spiced cologne.

Gabriel schooled his expression into something other than disappointment when his friend pulled away. Jack’s smile was overwhelming and genuine, his hands still resting on Gabriel’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Morrison started, soft, kind, an all-enveloping warmth. Gabriel’s own personal star. “It’s okay, Gabe. Thank you, honestly, it… It means a lot to know I have the support of those who matter most, okay?”

Blinding, like the sun, and all Gabriel could do was nod, numb, and let himself be consumed by it.


End file.
